


The Reckoning Of Time

by Vinvalen



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dark Prince 'verse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:58:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinvalen/pseuds/Vinvalen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel, in his role of Vala of the Elves, meets a mysterious old man, and sees more deeply into Vanimórë.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reckoning Of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dark Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780) by [Anwyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anwyn/pseuds/Anwyn), [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine). 



n the deep hours before dawn, Legolas felt Glorfindel leave their bed. Of itself, this was not an unusual occurrence; as Glorfindel’s altered existence as a Vala precluded a need for reverie. He did however, _choose_ to be there; holding Legolas through the dark hours as a portion of the Vala’s thoughts roamed elsewhere. After awhile waiting his return, Legolas rose also; going went in search of his mate. Where he eventually found him _was_ unusual. 

Glorfindel sat on the shallow steps of the palace; his unblinking attention fixed upon the granite slab marking the place of Morgoth’s defeat. Legolas laid a hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder; squeezing gently, not speaking. Glorfindel would not mind his greeting; but through time, Legolas had come to read the Vala’s moods as well as he knew his own; recognizing his need for silence. The fingers were captured and kissed gently, even as Glorfindel’s attention remained fixed upon the slab. Legolas sat beside him, curious as to the path of the other’s thoughts. For the most part, Glorfindel willfully ignored the presence of the massive stone as if it did not exist.

This time, however, Glorfindel sat through the remainder of the night…and then all through the following day; eyes narrowed, unmoving. He stared until the inhabitants of New Cuivienen, going about their normal routines, began to whisper among themselves at the incongruity of his remaining in one place for such a length of time. Not that he noticed. If any spoke, he paid them no heed. Offers of refreshment were also ignored, though not from any deliberate rudeness. His thoughts, quite simply, were _elsewhere._  
All throughout this unlikely vigil, Legolas remained, in silent support.

If anything, the slab annoyed Glorfindel with its very presence; when it happened to be in his direct path as he walked from one point to another as would any other elf. He could easily have moved himself instantaneously to a chosen destination, but he _would_ not. Instead, he would fix the slab with a glare of contempt and alter his path to go around it.

Morning of the second day of Glorfindel’s absorption arrived. In one fluid motion, without warning, he rose and strode to the slab and leapt upon it; in a flash of incandescence, he was gone.

He emerged upon a barren expanse of windswept stone; the salt-encrusted and weary remainder of the death of a dream. 

Meneltarma.

It was neutral ground, chosen as the place between the past and present where neither would encroach upon the domain of the others. 

He was not alone. Others waited there. He gave no hint of his surprise at the presence of Irmo, Nienna and Oromë, nor of Ulmo in the shallows beyond them; but the _one accompanying them?_ There were markings upon this one’s arms…markings similar to those Vanimórë had worn time out of mind.

The appearance of such a group beyond their appointed realm…as well as his own sense of impending cross currents within the flow of existence as he sat staring at Morgoth’s stone slab...   
His eyes widened as the pieces of an ages-long puzzle fell partially into place; yet indicated something stretching beyond time itself into a future he could not hope to understand. 

Irmo and Nienna gazed upon Glorfindel solemnly; unspeaking, and he wondered what part they would play in whatever was to come. Oromë, he understood. This one was a predator; held long away from his chosen hunting grounds. Something in his eyes bespoke an end of patience with his imposed restraint; yet also something much deeper. The Hunter Vala’s gaze shifted away from Glorfindel’s before he could read what lay hidden there; yet the flavor of it was somehow familiar.

Glorfindel was distracted from his musings as the Old One spoke; not aloud, but in his mind… the voice ancient and deep, yet laced with heartrending gentleness.

_“Thy duties weigh heavily upon thee, Child…yet thou art well-chosen for this company.  
Yet thou hast little experience in what shall be expected of thee, having not the venerable age of these, thy brethren. There will come a time when thou art called upon to use all thy strength of will and powers of persuasion. Wilt thou stay, and learn?”_

Afterward, he could never remember what or even if he had answered, but Glorfindel found himself sitting, without knowing how he had come to do so. The Old One sat by his side; a simple walking stick lying on the stone between them. At some point, Oromë and his companions departed, leaving the two of them alone; also without Glorfindel having noticed. 

It seemed as if coherent thought was swirled away by the ever-present wind as Glorfindel attempted to speak; only to have his words die before they passed his lips. In this one’s presence, he felt as if he was indeed the child the other had named him.

_“Come, now”_ the Other chided gently. _“Thy brother was not nearly as reticent as thee. Thou mayest speak freely.”_

_Brother_ …Finrod? When…? _No,_ came the startling conclusion.

_Vanimórë._

With this realization, it was as if he was again in command of his own voice, and with it came questions. 

“Chosen?” A single word, and yet it was enough. The other appeared pleased with this simple beginning.

_“Indeed. Wouldst thou learn why?”_

Mute once more, Glorfindel merely nodded. He struggled for breath as a myriad of images formed in his mind, a maelstrom of thought and sound sweeping through him as once the waves surrounding them had crashed down upon the last vestige of the mountain upon which they sat. 

_“Gently, Young One…thou hast yet to learn the bringing of order to thy visions, lest they overwhelm thee. Fix thy thought upon that which has been given into thy keeping…it will show thee the way.”_

Trembling violently, soaked with sweat, Glorfindel fought a battle within himself that made his facing of the Balrog pale by comparison; yet this time, he knew he was not alone. He was anchored by the presence at his side… _this_ time, he would win.   
Slowly, the crashing storm of imagery and sound subsided; coalescing into a single point of light that seemed to grow ever closer, gaining in clarity and intensity as his focus narrowed to exclude all else.

With sudden, blinding clarity, he knew.

He knew why the Valar had failed.

The light…always there had been the Light. The Valar had never commanded it…they had merely framed it; in preparation of the one who was to come. 

Fëanor. An imperfect vessel, without understanding…deceived to the belief of the making as being the sum of existence rather than the creation. Still, he had prevailed; even though he had not understood the compulsion under which he lived. He and those who followed had escaped the cage that was Aman not of their own will, but by that which Feanor embodied. 

From the Beginning, the Flame Imperishable…and the Great Music.

Both embodied…one in the sire, the other in the son….a secret he must keep. 

Fëanor... whose arrogance and obsession necessitated his prize not come again into his possession until he had proven himself; and learned both restraint and wisdom. And the other…the one who _heard_ hovered precariously upon the brink of madness, suffering endlessly without understanding the reason. Dissonance and distortion, woven inseparably; entwined to the torture of a soul who had no escape. This same Light had given Maglor the strength to stand; though he thought it was the hatred born in the depths of Barad-dûr.…Sauron had tried to kill not _him,_ but what he contained. 

Thus had Morgoth sown the seeds of his own downfall, as Sauron had done in following his Master’s footsteps. The Light and the Music had already gone beyond the Dark Power’s reach; gone to fulfill the future. Vanimórë had added the final insult; robbing his sire of their damaged and tormented vessel.

The Light would _not_ be contained…nor was it meant to be. Long ago it had touched Glorfindel, and he had not been burned. He had not _known,_ and yet his very name had marked him. He had never understood _why_ he had been the only one to return as he did…not until now. He had passed the Light he held unknowingly to another in desperate need; far away upon a field of death and sorrow. 

Together they had fought the darkness, each protecting the other by the only means they could. It flowed unseen between himself and Vanimórë in that place where it seemed darkness would prevail; and where Evil had laughed in the face of their tragedy. Where the Void had swallowed their bright King with an appetite never appeased, the hunger of the grave. Elvendom had been brought almost to its knees, and Tindomion’s spirit broken by grief for his Gilya. Such a hollow victory they had won upon that field; yet they had lived to fight again. Had lived in spite of Manwë and Námo’s plans to bring their people to heel.

In giving the Light away had it been returned, though he had not understood at the time. Neither would the Light be owned; hopelessness and destruction had followed in the wake of those who had tried.

The Son of Darkness had been reclaimed; restored, and had received his heritage upon the shores of the sea, and within the Flames. The balance had been struck. The seed sown in their joining had been the path the Light had chosen to rend the Void for those who had been both stolen and condemned unjustly. In those dark moments before Sauron’s stronghold he had not known _why,_ only that he must keep Vanimórë alive, by whatever means. Vanimórë’s defiance was all that kept him from being overwhelmed in the face of Sauron’s tortures, though it had seemed the kindest course would have been to allow him to fade. That was before he had known who Vanimórë truly was, and what he had already and would continue to suffer for their sake.

Glorfindel could now believe he better understood the nature of the relationship between Vanimórë and Maglor…Maglor’s hatred blocked the discordant strains ever threatening his sanity; he needed that focus; with one who was within his reach. Vanimórë transformed him, though against his will, holding him from the abyss with both pleasure and pain. Only in their joining were the mocking Voices stilled. Each was, in his own way, as broken as the other. Vanimórë had never known, before Maglor, that there could be beauty in joining his body with another. 

Glorfindel wept for Vanimórë; wept for them both in this place where his secrets would ever be kept. He felt the gentle hand of the Old One upon his back, rubbing comforting circles, allowing him his tears. The simplest, yet most profound and needful beauty of life had been denied this child born of cruelty. He had been bereft of even a _name_ …until given one by Glorfindel. 

And Glorfindel had named him Beautiful, not in the Common language, but in the ancient, liquidly elegant High Tongue of the elves. Even now, so long afterward, he remembered Vanimórë’s reaction…shaken laughter bordering upon a sob at the receipt of such a priceless gift…the defining of his soul. Morgoth had also called him thus, but on the lips of the Dark Vala the name had been a curse, a mockery. In contemptuous defiance, he had refused to acknowledge it.   
   
 _I am nothing. I am no one._  
   
Not until Glorfindel had he claimed it as his own.  
Glorfindel imagined him as a child, surviving by wits and will in the horror that was Angband…He was shown exactly what Vanimórë had suffered there, and from the sheer weight of the knowledge he crawled away, retching into the waters of the sea, trembling. Again the Old One’s presence enfolded him; wiping his brow, soothing the aftermath of what Glorfindel had seen. No longer did he wonder why Vanimórë fought Morgoth and Sauron with such single-minded savagery when any other would have fallen into despair; possibly even Glorfindel himself. 

So be it. Glorfindel would not pity him; for to pity Vanimórë was to demean his suffering. Instead, he would call upon the Light of the Silmaril that had touched them both; and hope it would be sustenance enough in the face of whatever the future would bring.  
Guardian he had been chosen. Guardian he would remain.

And now that same Light, encased within a seemingly fragile, yet unbreakable shell lay within close proximity of his _own_ beloved. What would come of this? 

_Trust._  
He had to trust that there was a reason, and the reason would be revealed in its own time.

_“Thou **dost** see, even darkly”_ came the voice of his companion into the place where Glorfindel traveled. It anchored him, drawing him back…just as he caught a glimpse of something more, something he wished desperately to understand. Vanimórë…

_“Thou must understand both the past and the present before thou mayest build the future,”_ the Old One continued.

Glorfindel trembled in the passing of the visions, slowly gaining a sense of his surroundings once more. It occurred to him to wonder why the other Valar had not remained.

_“They wished to atone,”_ was the answer, as if he had spoken aloud. _“For the past, though their guilt is in close measure of Tulkas and Oromë, somewhat less than others. They were ever thine advocates, thine and thy brother’s.”_

So much had been lost, Glorfindel thought. So much needless pain and sorrow perpetrated by those whose task was not to rule, but to guide and protect until Eru’s children grew into the fullness of their heritage.

_“Worry not… they **will** grow… Thou wilt come to understand, in the reckoning of time. Already thou hast the key within thy grasp.”_

Key? Again, trust. The last fragment of his visions danced tantalizingly before him, just beyond reach. 

_“Very good, Child…when the time comes for thee to act, thou wilt know; as thou hast **always** known.”_

Glorfindel’s gaze was drawn to the faded silvery lines of his scars. Even through his rebirth and later transformation, they had remained. A reminder…and in their very presence, a testament of not only the past, but the future.

_“Yes. Therein is **thy** truth…thine own Markings of Remembrance, though not set upon thee in ink. Thou hast no need of it.”_

Glorfindel voiced a quiet acknowledgment. He was exhausted from his ordeal, and wished nothing more than to lie back upon the sun-warmed stone and collect himself.

_“Ah…but thou must needs look to thine **own** Silmaril,” the other chuckled; “lest someone attempt to lay hands upon it while thy attention is elsewhere.”_

The warning was not wasted upon Glorfindel. He was on his feet instantly; departing as suddenly as he had arrived. 

Smiling, the lone figure remained, watching the sun set across gold-painted water.


End file.
